


Aubade

by jeongui



Category: Stray Kids (Band)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst and Feels, Choking, Drunken Shenanigans, Explicit Sexual Content, Friends With Benefits, Lee Minho | Lee Know Being an Idiot, M/M, Past Han Jisung/Kim Seungmin, Recreational Drug Use, Sexual Tension, Shotgunning, Smoking, Switching, Unforgivable overuse of the words dude and bro, he's cute tho
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-02
Updated: 2021-03-02
Packaged: 2021-03-18 09:55:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29241681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jeongui/pseuds/jeongui
Summary: They weren't supposed to be anything more than best friends who fucked occasionally — casually, of course, totally platonically — but something about New York changed the way Minho looks at Jisung.
Relationships: Bang Chan/Lee Felix, Han Jisung | Han/Lee Minho | Lee Know
Comments: 64
Kudos: 419
Collections: MINSUNG FICATHON: Round One; 2020





	Aubade

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [MINSUNG FICATHON](https://twitter.com/minsungficathon), for the prompt A084
> 
> This work is inspired by the song "K" by Cigarettes After Sex. I tried my best to match the vibes of the song, but I'm not sure how well I did. I hope it's at least a little bit of what the original prompter had in mind ^^
> 
> Aubade: A morning love song; a song of lovers parting in the morning.

* * *

_And I'm kissing you lying in my room_  
_Holding you until you fall asleep_  
_And it's just as good as I knew it would be_  
_Stay with me I don't want you to leave_

* * *

The heavy door to the apartment swings shut behind them with a bang, and Minho barely has time to turn around and wrestle Jisung's baggage into his hallway before Jisung has him pressed to the door, mouth on his, hand fisted in his hair, their fronts pressed firmly together.

The kiss is desperate and Minho moans into it in surprise, hands scrambling to find purchase on Jisung's body, suitcase forgotten. He lets Jisung lead for a moment, opening his lips when a tongue licks over them, tilting his head when the hand fisted in the hairs on the back of his neck tightens, urging him to deepen the kiss even further. 

When there’s a halt, Minho pulls away. Jisung’s eyes flutter open before he blinks, a frown forming between his eyebrows. Minho breathes heavily from the kiss, caught between his apartment door and Jisung's body. He watches as Jisung gulps, licking his lips.

“I thought you were tired, dude,” Minho manages, using a hand on Jisung’s chest to push him back gently. 

Jisung grins, the frown between his eyebrows smoothing out as if it had never even been there in the first place.

“I’m not that tired,” he says, batting away Minho’s hand before fisting his shirt and pulling him in to reconnect their lips in a hungry kiss.

This isn't exactly what Minho had thought would happen when he picked Jisung up at the airport. Sure, he had thought about it, but they hadn’t actually talked about their little slip-up since it happened, and Minho had been content knowing it had been a thing they had done that one time, stupidly, in a drunken stupor. 

It doesn’t feel like a drunken mistake now, though, as Jisung bites Minho’s bottom lip, smiling mischievously and twisting the grip on his hair harshly, pulling, until Minho’s scalp is burning and he’s throbbing with unrestrained want.

The kiss develops quickly, turning into wandering hands and mouths on necks, insistent pulling on the clothes between them, and Minho doesn't even think about what the fuck they're actually doing before he's leading Jisung backward through his apartment, into the bedroom, fumbling blindly to turn on the lights while trying to keep up with the frantic kiss before eventually groaning and pulling away when he misses. Jisung doesn't miss a beat, though, mouthing wetly down his neck, trailing kisses up behind his ear.

They're best friends. This is not how it goes, usually. 

Usually, because the last time they did this, Minho had bashfully blamed it on the alcohol thrumming through both their blood, writing it off as a mistake that just happened to happen because Minho had traveled back home for Chuseok to spend the holiday season with his parents, and Jisung and he had gone out drinking before ending up together in Jisung’s bed, drunk off their asses but at the point of no return nonetheless. Minho remembers Jisung rambling about his ex who had broken up with him the week prior, lower lip wobbling as he held back tears, and Minho had felt his heart squeeze inexplicably with something akin to jealousy. 

It had hardly been something to write home about, rushed and clumsily frantic as it was, and they had passed out tangled in Jisung’s messy sheets afterward, waking up hungover. They fucked the next day too, though, in the shower. It hadn’t been awkward; it hadn’t been anything, and Jisung had simply said, “It’s not a big deal, dude,” as he toweled himself dry. Minho had agreed easily. They weren’t like that. They wouldn’t let something like this have an effect on them.

They never had. 

And it really hadn’t been a big deal. He had flown back to New York the next day, and Jisung never mentioned it again, so neither did Minho. 

They fall on the bed with a thump, Minho climbing on top of Jisung to reconnect their lips. Their hips grind together frantically, impatient, rough material of their jeans chafing against each other. Jisung groans into the kiss, roaming hands working to rid Minho of his shirt, pulling at it until Minho has to lean back to get it over his head. Jisung rips his own shirt off as well, and Minho has to take a moment to catch his breath as Jisung lays back down, well-defined chest heaving. 

“You started working out again?” he pants.

Jisung grins. “Yeah. See something you like?”

Minho hums, leaning back down over Jisung. “You look hot,” he murmurs, maybe a little too honest, lips hovering over Jisung’s. He runs a hand up Jisung’s hard stomach, feeling the muscle rib and quiver under his palm. 

Jisung grips a tight hold of Minho’s neck, and Minho ignores how the subtle show of strength makes a shiver run through his body. “Yeah?” 

“Mhm,” he murmurs, hooking his fingers into the belt loops of Jisung’s jeans, using them to tug him down the bed. Their hips press back together, hands sliding up to Jisung’s narrow hips, Minho gripping the bones hard before sliding a thigh roughly between his legs.

Jisung squeaks at the sudden jostle. “Fucking chill, dude,” he snickers.

“Sorry. Muscles make me horny,” Minho whispers into Jisung’s mouth, grinning when it clearly strokes Jisung’s ego. He hovers over him until Jisung closes his eyes, straining upwards for a kiss. Then he leans down, biting lightly at Jisung’s right pec, cubbing it in one hand before moving to the nipple. 

“ _Fuck_. Ngh— ” Jisung gasps, hips bucking up into Minho’s thigh, hard dick obvious through his jeans. 

Minho leans away from his chest, laughing. He pinches Jisung’s nipple lightly, watching him shudder as his eyes flutter closed “Yeah?”

“Shut the fuck up,” Jisung groans, but his hips are twitching up against Minho’s like he can’t help it. Minho can feel the heat of his arousal too, pressing hard against his thigh, hot through the material of his jeans. 

Minho sniggers but doesn't comment on it; he'll store the information for later. For now, he settles for wrestling Jisung's pants off, sitting up to do the same to himself before they're both naked as the day they were born. Jisung falls on his back again, wiggling a little, sly smile on his lips.

Minho moves to sit between his legs, grabbing a hold of a pale thigh. "Spread 'em."

Jisung laughs, but spreads his legs around Minho shamelessly, bending them at the knees and planting his feet on the mattress by Minho's hips. "Wow, you really know how to romance a guy, huh?"

Minho rolls his eyes, biting his lip to hold back his smile.

It’s weird. He knows Jisung, but not like this. This is uncharted territory and Minho fumbles for longer than he would care to admit figuring out what Jisung likes, what makes him shudder and arch, let out noises Minho has never thought twice about in the past. He learns that Jisung throws his head to the side when Minho takes the head of his cock into his mouth, choking on a gasp, fisting a trembling hand in the pillow under his head. He learns that the underside of his cock is sensitive, that Jisung will laugh, overwhelmed, when Minho tongues over it teasingly.

"Fuck, Min," Jisung groans, tugging on Minho's hair. "I'll come."

Minho pulls off, breathless. "Already?"

"Fuck you."

"You—"

They both snap their heads to the side when Minho's phone goes off suddenly, the soft notes of _Heaven In Your Eyes_ by Loverboy filling the room. Minho scrambles to the floor to wrestle the phone out of his jean pocket as Jisung crackles loudly on the bed. 

"Fucking Chris," Minho mutters as he turns the phone off, throwing it off to the side.

" _That's_ your ringtone?" Jisung laughs, dodging when Minho attempts to swat at him, unable to hold back his own laugh. 

"Shut up."

"It's cute," Jisung sniggers, propped up on his elbows, dick still hard against his stomach, "Loverboy."

Minho groans. "Don't call me that."

"I think you like it."

"I do not." Minho pushes Jisung back down with a hand on his chest, settling back between his legs. 

With anyone else, he would've thought the mood would be ruined, but all Jisung has to do is smirk and bite his lip, tug Minho down into a kiss, and Minho's cock starts to harden again. He presses their fronts together, breath hitching when their cocks brush, Jisung hooking a leg behind Minho's thigh, grinding upwards. 

Blindly, Minho reaches over to roam his side table for condoms and lube. He knows he must have some in there, somewhere, if he could just find them. He groans, sitting up straighter and ignoring the way Jisung laughs when he keeps digging around in the drawer.

“You need to clean your drawers, bro,” he chuckles, propped back up on his elbows on the bed beside Minho.

Minho rolls his eyes. “Shut the fuck up, like you aren’t— Ah! Knew they were here,” he exclaims when he comes up lucky, showing Jisung a half-used bottle of lube and a packet of condoms triumphantly. He checks the expiry date on the box before throwing them at Jisung.

When he crawls back to sit between Jisung’s thighs, Jisung is reading the label on the lube suspiciously. “Is this fucking flavored?” he asks, glancing back up at Minho in disbelief.

Minho snatches the bottle from him, eyeing it. He hasn’t had any use for lube in quite a while, but the bottle really does advertise for “a sweet, ultra juicy lubricant that enhances sex with tons of long-lasting slipperiness and a deliciously silky feel, not to mention a mouthwatering hit of sweet cherry flavor with no unpleasant aftertaste.” Huh. He giggles as he reads the description out loud to Jisung, who falls back on the bed with a laugh of his own.

“That’s fucking nasty."

Minho throws the bottle to the side and leans back down to hover over Jisung. He reconnects their lips and with a grin pressed to Jisung’s lips. “Maybe I want long-lasting slipperiness and mouthwatering cherry flavor.”

Jisung gives a breathy snigger, fisting one hand in Minho’s hair. “At least get something like chocolate or fucking... I don't know. Mint? Cherry is just gross.”

“I like my lube fruity.”

Jisung pulls back from their half-hearted kiss to laugh. Minho attaches his mouth to the long line of his neck, trailing open-mouthed kisses up to his sharp jaw. Jisung shudders under him.

“Fucking fruity.” When Jisung speaks this time, his voice is shakier, a little more strained as Minho moves to mouth at his earlobe. “Didn’t think you’d be the fruity kind of guy.”

Pulling back, Minho frowns at Jisung playfully. “Fucks that supposed to mean?”

“Means you don’t look fruity.”

“I look fruity as fuck,” Minho counters. "'M cherry sherbet."

Jisung rolls his eyes and squirms underneath him, and oh yeah, they were kind of in the middle of something. 

"If you're done reclaiming slurs, can we go back to—" And he wiggles again for emphasis. 

Minho goes back to the issue at hand because, come on, Jisung is spread out underneath him, naked, legs spread, ready for Minho to finger him open and fuck him into the mattress. Still, he can't shake the feeling of slight nervousness that causes him to mindlessly bicker with Jisung for just a small sense of normalcy, the only thing that's keeping him fucking sane right now. Because Jisung is his best friend and they agreed that nothing would change between them, but something clearly changed and Minho has no idea how to deal with it.

He figures he doesn't have to, right now at least, as he swallows the laugh Jisung lets out, deepening the kiss and settling all the way down on top of Jisung, aligning their crotches back up. Jisung twists his grip on Minho’s hair painfully, making Minho hiss into the kiss. Jisung smiles cockily, looking way too satisfied with himself. It makes Minho want to cant his hips down harder, treat him a little rougher. He sucks Jisung’s bottom lip into his mouth, biting down just a little too hard. Jisung groans into his mouth. 

He works them both up to a sweat before pulling back to trail kisses down Jisung’s stomach, biting around his navel, his lower stomach where his hard abs clench against the sensation, cock hard against his stomach, lazy smirk on his face like the fucker knows how good he looks, and it makes Minho want to take him down a notch, reduce him to a mess of pleasure. 

“You look way too cocky,” he murmurs, reaching down to run his fingers over Jisung’s length, unsurprised to note the way he’s already leaking against his own stomach.

Jisung bites his lip, legs spreading further apart against the mattress. “You like it,” he says, mouth falling open in a silent gasp when Minho closes his hand around him, stroking from base to tip with a tight grip. 

When they had sex the first time, it had been sloppy and perhaps just a little too rough, and they had fought for the upper hand until Minho eventually relented, letting Jisung pour all frustration into his harsh thrusts against the back of Minho’s thighs, biting down on Jisung’s pillow to muffle his moans. It had been handsy and Minho had been sore on the plane back, Jisung’s handprints burning on his hips, backside aching from where Jisung had pounded him into the mattress.

It had been good, so good, but Minho thinks he rather prefers this; Jisung on his back for him, legs spread obscenely as Minho watches his own latex-covered cock disappear into his swollen, stretched hole, flushed all the way down to his chest, head thrown back shamelessly and one arm working to fist his own cock wantonly to the rhythm of Minho’s hips. And he’s taking it so well, small whimpers getting caught in his throat every time Minho bottoms out, eyes burning with want as he lifts his head up to look at Minho.

Minho holds his gaze for a second before it becomes too much and he squeezes them shut, letting his head fall back and moaning headily with the pleasure thrumming through his body. Jisung feels way too fucking good; Minho can already feel an impending orgasm simmering in his lower belly, threatening to explode every time Jisung clenches around him, the muscles in his arms bulging every time he strokes his cock. 

With a groan, Minho topples forward, catching himself with a hand pressed to the mattress by Jisung’s head. He slows the pace of his hips, pressing himself in deeper and watching as Jisung chokes on a gasp, mouth hanging open.

"Fuck— ah, Minho," Jisung groans, back arching away from the mattress.

”Yeah?” Minho manages, breath uneven. He can feel sweat dripping down from his hairline, down his throat, sticking to the hand Jisung reaches up to grasp his neck with, bringing him down to a kiss. 

They kiss as they adjust the position, Minho fumbling blindly to press a stray pillow underneath Jisung’s hips, raising him to a better angle as he starts thrusting again. Jisung moans into the kiss, lips going slack. He looks blissed out. Pride surges in Minho's chest at the sight, arousal overflowing his body. 

"Are you close?" he manages between his harsh breaths, struggling to keep up the pace of his hips. 

Jisung's eyes flutter open. "Yeah," he gasps, "You?"

"Fuck yeah." 

He goes faster, biting his lip when Jisung cries out, fingernails digging into the skin of his neck painfully. And maybe it's the intimacy fucking with his head or the dark room and the way they're tangled in his sheets, both on the edge, that allows Minho to look Jisung in the eye, to whisper, "I missed you," heart jumping when Jisung returns the remark in a drawn-out moan.

It's forgotten before they come, though; Minho inside the condom and Jisung between their trembling stomachs, legs tightening around his body, caging him in.

Minho pants heavily as he comes down, face pressed against Jisung’s neck. Underneath him, Jisung seems to be having trouble catching his breath as well, his sweaty chest heaving against Minho’s. His legs fall down from around Minho’s waist heavily, feet landing on the mattress with a thump.

A minute passes as they lay there pressed together before Minho feels careful fingers trailing down his back, tracing lazy patterns down his spine and over his obliques. A shudder surges through his body at the sensation, making Jisung chuckle lowly. He rises on an elbow, catching Jisung in a slow kiss, lips pressing together lazily.

When they pull apart, Minho sits back on his knees, carefully pulling his softening cock out of Jisung before removing the used condom, tying it, and chugging it somewhere in the direction of his trash can. He falls back on the bed beside Jisung, looking up into the ceiling. 

He has LED up there, the shitty, cheap ones from Amazon that Minho lost the remote to after a couple of days of using them and now they're permanently stuck on purple. Should've turned them on. Very disco-esque. That's sexy, right? Perfect to fuck to. 

“Are you still hungry?” he asks, turning his face to look at Jisung.

Jisung turns as well. His face is still kind of red, lips swollen. Minho figures he looks the same.

“Fuck yeah,” Jisung murmurs, rolling over and pressing a kiss to Minho’s chest before he gets up from the bed, picking up a random pair of boxers to wear. “I need a cig.”

Minho rolls his eyes. He’s hated that habit of Jisung’s ever since their first time; getting a cigarette right after sex. It’s so pretentious, such a fucking cliche. Nonetheless, he follows Jisung out to the fire escape, pulling on a pair of worn sweats. He grabs a button-up too, for Jisung to put on and ignores the implications of _that_. 

Jisung has already lit a cigarette when Minho settles in front of him on the uneven metal of the fire escape, handing him the curled up shirt. Jisung eyes it for a second too long but puts it on without a word, sliding his arms through the sleeves as the cigarette hangs between his lips. Minho takes it from him, letting his eyes fall shut as he inhales smoke into his lungs. When he opens them again, Jisung is studying him. His eyes stray down to Minho’s lips, watching as they close around the orange filter. 

He holds his hand out for the cigarette, bringing it to his lips when Minho hands it over. “So, about this Chris guy.”

Minho throws his head back with a laugh. “You jealous?” he asks, nudging Jisung with his foot.

Jisung scoffs. “I don't get jealous.”

“Sure.” Minho rolls his eyes with a shake of his head. “You know Chris has a boyfriend. I’ve talked about them before.”

Jisung takes another drag of the cigarette, using it to point at Minho. “Oh, yeah. The Australian one, right?

Minho snatches the cigarette from him again. Takes a drag, talking as he exhales. “They’re both Australian.”

“Oh. that's gotta be confusing,” Jisung says. 

Minho almost chokes on the smoke in his lungs as he bursts out laughing, letting the rest out through his nose. “Shut up, you’re so dumb,” he snickers, “You make no sense, dude.”

“Fuck you,” Jisung crackles, “Give me my cig back.”

Minho shakes his head, taking another drag. The cigarette is almost done, so he stubs it out on the metal floor, flecks of orange scattering around the smushed tip. 

Jisung groans. “For someone who hates that I smoke so much, you sure steal my cigarettes a lot.”

“They’re bad for you,” Minho says, “And I only hate it because it’s such a trashy cliché. Kinda fits you, though, my salt bae.”

“I’m not salty, fucker.”

Minho just laughs in lieu of answering; Jisung is the saltiest fucker he knows. He practically runs on that shit.

Groaning, he stands up, legs protesting. Talking to Jisung makes him feel like he’s a teenager again, makes him think of the old days where they would stay up till midnight on school nights just to fuck about in their neighborhood with the New York City skyline as their very own theater backdrop, bickering about absolutely everything. That part still hasn’t changed.

The part where they have sex is new, though, and Minho isn’t sure what to make of it yet.

“I’ll order something to eat,” he says, shuffling back into the apartment, stretching as he goes.

They catch up over Chinese takeout and some cheap alcohol like they hadn't just talked last weak about the final details of Jisung's trip. It's nice, though, being face to face as they sit across from each other on the floor, leaning against Minho’s green velvet couches, instead of seeing each other through a crackling FaceTime call that keeps disconnecting because Minho's wifi sucks and he never bothered to buy something better.

“These are so ugly,” Jisung comments, picking at the fraying edges of the green fabric. He’s still clad in only boxers and the shirt with the buttons half done up, a handful of red marks now adorning his neck. He looks unfairly sexy, hair all messy and Minho needs to look away before he does something stupid like lean over and kiss him. 

“Yo,” he complains instead, “They’re stylish.”

Jisung snorts. “In the ’70s maybe, but they were ugly then too.”

Minho stuffs his face with the chicken lo mein, rolling his eyes. "You don't know a single thing about style."

"Do too," Jisung huffs. His legs are spread widely where he sits on the floor, and Minho can't help the way his eyes trail over the exposed skin whenever Jisung isn't paying attention. He doesn't know how successful he is in being subtle, but it hardly matters when he keeps catching Jisung's eyes straying down his Minho's neck as he throws his head back to drink another shot of soju from the Korean supermarket two streets down.

Slumping against the couch further, Minho chuckles lightly to himself. "Remember when you wore that—"

"Yo! Will you ever let that go?" Jisung exclaims, successfully cutting Minho off, "Dude, I fucking loved that shirt, and Seungmin told me it looked great in it."

Minho tries not to get thrown off by the all too casual mention of Jisung's ex. "Well, Seungmin is a fucking liar then," he says with a thin laugh, "The shirt was disgusting. And you wore it so much, it was painful to talk to you that year."

"I don't know why you're so against that shirt, it was my favorite."

"The way you're defending that atrocious shirt," Minho says in disbelief, shaking his head. That fucking shirt was the ugliest thing to ever see the light of day. He really did hate it, even more so when a younger Jisung had proudly announced that his boyfriend loved the shirt, and suddenly everything Minho saw was _Seungminseungminseungmin_ , even through the cracked, dirty screen of his iPhone. 

Minho hadn’t hated Seungmin. He hadn’t even tried to hate Seungmin, because he made Jisung happy. That's what Jisung showed him, anyway. It had been obvious they were ill-fitted, though, and Minho had resented the way Jisung hadn’t _really_ been the same during those two and almost a half years they had dated. Hadn’t really been himself, like Minho knew, from before.

Across from him, Jisung shakes his head with a small snicker. “Here,” he says as he pours them both another shot of soju. “Drink.”

Minho groans when the liquid burns down his throat. There’s something tight in his chest, something unfamiliar and definitely unwelcome, something thick that crawls up his throat. He looks at Jisung on the other side of the table, eating, drinking, and it’s almost normal but then— 

His eyes trail down his throat and get stuck on the marks he left on Jisung’s skin himself, and he’s reminded that this is not even remotely normal and that he just fucked his best friend less than an hour ago.

He clears his throat. Jisung seems unbothered. 

“So,” he drawls, trying for something casual, “How’s life in Korea?”

Jisung lights up. “Fuck, man, I really love it there. It’s like… my childhood dream come true times ten, you know?”

Minho hums. He does know. Jisung didn’t talk about anything else when they were kids, growing up together in the fringes of New York, always going on and on about music and lyrics and the thoughts in his head that seemed too large. He never shared too much with Minho, but he knew Jisung had big dreams of leaving their neighborhood, New York, America. 

“New York City isn’t a real place,” Jisung would always say, “It’s a fantasy. A figment of our collective imagination. 

Minho, angst-ridden but too proud to say it, would counter, “You’re losing me, bro. It’s always such philosophical bullshit with you.”

“Think about it!” Jisung would insist, “Everyone just assumes the great, shining New York City is where all your dreams come true, because what? Because it’s the “greatest city on Earth”? Fuck no. That’s just an idea.”

Minho, back then, would shake his head. “What makes you think Seoul will be any different?”

Jisung wouldn’t have an answer, of course. “I’m sick of being here. I just need to get out,” was all he got in response every time the topic would come up. It wasn’t often, but when it did, dread would settle in Minho’s stomach. 

He hadn’t been able to agree with Jisung back then either. He had stayed in America, after all, while Han Jisung moved to Korea to reinvent himself, to get out, to escape. To chase a dream. Minho had tried so hard not to feel hurt, betrayed by his best friend back then, for leaving him.

The Jisung in front of him has grown, that much is evident. Obviously, it's been seven years, but it's clear that his thoughts aren’t as big anymore, as consuming. Minho supposes that’s what living the dream does to you. 

He reaches over and pops a sliced mushroom into his mouth, licking the sauce off his fingers. “Studio still good? You’re still working with that guy, uh—"

“Changbin.”

“Mh.”

Jisung leans back against the couch, nodding. “Yeah. He’s really fucking talented. I write better lyrics, though.”

Minho snickers, shaking his head when a wide grin spreads across Jisung’s face. “I’m sure you do. You used to have so many fake deep thoughts.”

“Fuck, man,” Jisung chuckles, “My teen-angst was on another level. I still don’t understand why you even wanted to be friends with me.”

Minho shrugs teasingly. “Guess I couldn’t shake you after that one time in the first grade, remember?”

Jisung throws his head back in a laugh, loud and hearty, carefree. “I’m still convinced we were put together because we were the quietest kids in class.”

"Yeah. Didn't last for long, though."

Jisung grins. "Our teacher probably still regrets that."

"Mh."

Minho sinks into the floor further, simmering in the feeling of hanging out with Jisung again. He really did miss it, like he admitted when he was on the brink of orgasm, unable to hold it back. It feels kind of similar now, with the alcohol in his bloodstream, like he's teetering on the edge of something all too fluffy and decidedly _not_ their style. He can't help but snort at his own thought. It's kinda funny. Fluff. 

He pours them both another shot to drown it out. 

Minho wakes up the next morning at an unforgivable early hour, groaning as he feels sweat on the back of his neck. It’s unfairly hot in his bedroom, and Jisung is sticking to his back like a leech. Glancing out of the open window, Minho considers getting out of bed for a cold shower, but it’s still dark outside and the heat is getting to his head a little bit. 

Sighing, he reaches behind himself and pushes Jisung off. “Ugh, get off. You’re shvitzing. Absolutely disgusting.”

Jisung only rolls over, stretching out as far as his limps can go on the mattress, face buried in the pillows. Minho wonders how he can sleep in this fucking heat.

Sighing, he blindly reaches his hand out in the direction of his side table in search of his phone. He squints when it turns on, blinding him. It’s fucking 5.43 in the morning. 

He clicks around for a while; there's a message from Hyunjin dated of last night, one from his mom asking him if Jisung arrived all right. He ignores the former and answers the one from his mom before checking the weather. _Heatwave hitting New York_ smacks him right in the face, followed by _a merciless temperatures are expected to climb above 90 degrees during the week, and over 95 degrees on the weekend._

He tosses the phone away from himself in spite, kicking the covers off his body. They slide to the ground with a thump and he giggles at the way Jisung's entire backside gets exposed. He lets his eyes wander for a moment, just to appreciate the view, before he sighs and gets up to shower. 

He figures he probably has time before Jisung gets up, if his sleep schedule is as fucked as it used to be, so he putters around while drying his hair with a towel, feeding the stray cat that hangs out on the fire escape in the mornings, collects Jisung's abandoned suitcase by his front door, almost slamming foot into the threshold to his living room remembering what happened last night, how Jisung had practically fucking jumped him as soon as they were alone. 

He makes himself a cup of coffee and catches the sunrise out on the fire escape, lightly petting the tabby cat, who purrs but eyes him warily. He grins; it's been a work in progress with her, but she's warming up to him. Usually, he'll sit here with her before going to work, watching the sun appear over the top of the brick building across the street.

It's even hotter when Jisung finally joins him, groaning as he climbs through the window to the fire escape, clad in thin shorts and nothing else. 

"Shit, it's hot," he says, pushing the mess of hair back from his forehead with one hand, tilting his head up against the sun, basking. 

"Mh," Minho agrees. The metal is starting to burn under his skin from the heat of the sun. Behind him, his curtains are swinging gently with the soft breeze. 

"We should do something today." Jisung has his eyes closed as he says it, head resting back against the brick wall of Minho's apartment building.

"We're going to see your mom."

Jisung hums. "I know." He opens his eyes, turns to watch Minho. "Something else."

"Like?"

Jisung grins and Minho is already shaking his head before Jisung can even suggest that they go see some touristy ass shit. 

"Come on, Minho!" Jisung whines, "My mom never took me to see the New York essentials."

"You could practically see them from our backyards!" he argues, knowing he's lost already. 

So they go see the Statue of Liberty, Minho complaining the whole way there, just to be difficult. 

"This is awful!" he hisses as they sit on the ferry, sunglasses low on his nose, arms crossed tightly over his chest. "All these people are all fucking shvitzing all over the place, it's so gross. And I bet we're the only fucking New Yorkers here."

Jisung rolls his eyes and takes another picture of the disgusting, green water they're sailing on. "You're a baby."

"This is actually embarrassing," Minho laments at him, sinking down further in his seat. "We look exactly like tourists, I can't believe you convinced me to do this."

Jisung barks out a loud laugh, and the lady in front of them turns to glare at them. Jisung presses his lips together to hold it back, apologizing quickly while Minho glares right back at her, squinting at her ugly, obviously dyed bob and cheap dupes of Chanel sunglasses until she turns around with a huff. 

"That's what I thought, Karen-ssi," he mutters in Korean, earning him a smack on the shoulder from Jisung, who struggles to hold back his laugh still. 

Ellis island is kind of interesting, at least, Minho will give Jisung that. He only groans a little bit as Jisung drags him around inside of the museum, pointing at things and explaining them excitedly.

Minho nods along, unable to keep his treacherous smile at bay. 

"See, you can see all the names here. Wonder if my grandparents are— Minho, are you even listening?" Jisung says, reading a plaque in one of the dimly lit rooms of the museum. Minho's head shoots up from where he was playing a game on his phone, sending Jisung a bashful smile. 

"Put it away!" Jisung giggles, smacking Minho again, who rolls his eyes but puts his phone away. He's fucking bored, and Jisung _knows_ that Minho is bored. He groans as Jisung pulls him into another room, heart skipping a beat when the hand on his wrist slides down and their hands link, fingers laced together. 

Minho looks at their hands as he trails behind Jisung, who doesn't comment on his action, feels distracted when Jisung starts talking about the baggage of immigrants like it's the most fascinating piece of information he's heard all day, not even missing a beat. 

He feels weirdly unsettled, not sure what to make of the way Jisung has practically rendered him speechless with a single touch.

Afterward, when they're both fried from the sun and hungry, they visit Jisung's mom in their old neighborhood like they had originally planned. She cries while hugging Jisung and Minho almost feels like he should go visit his own mom.

The year Jisung moved to Korea, Minho's family moved away from their neighborhood and Minho enrolled in New York University. Their Department of Dance was impressive and halfway through his fourth year, he landed himself a job at a small dance studio Downtown. He moved out that year, too, had called Jisung to tell him and everything, proudly showing him around his new space, cavernous as it might have been, biting back his jealousy when Jisung had to go because his boyfriend was coming over.

Minho thinks it's luck that they didn't cut ties after Jisung moved. Maybe it was sheer stubbornness on Jisung's side like with everything else in their friendship. Minho certainly doesn't keep up with the lives of any of their friends back in high school, unbothered as their messages grow more and more sporadic. 

Jisung called him a few weeks ago, though, as he tended to do when Minho didn't do it, telling him he had a couple of weeks off before starting a new, big project with a partner at his new job.

"Can I come hang, bro?" Jisung had snickered into the phone, and Minho had laughed because that's what they used to say back in high school. He'd eagerly agreed; the last time Jisung visited home was Christmas the year after he moved, but Minho had been busy with college back then and they had barely had time to hung out. 

They spend the rest of the day in Jisung's childhood home and his mom makes them lunch and talks their ears off, scolding them for not wearing enough sunscreen and commenting on Jisung's body, smacking him over the head for not calling often enough, but it's clear that's she's proud of her son, of what he's done with his life back in Korea. It's cute, watching Jisung blush and tell his mom about their new project coming up, a smile lighting up his face when his mom pats him on the cheek before dropping a bowl of homecooked food in front of them both, telling them to eat. 

* * *

They spend a couple of days just lazing around in Minho's apartment as the heatwave washes over New York City, AC blasting on their sweaty bodies. Minho orders food, and they watch movie after movie, fucking through some of the bad ones, drinking through Minho's alcohol supply, fucking again, smoking the occasional blunt, sleeping, fucking, eating, fucking. Repeat.

It's good. Minho honestly thinks the orgasms are rising straight to his head a little, making him al _giddy_ and happy, fucking giggly. He hasn't felt this good in weeks, just lazing around with someone. 

“Feeling broody over there?” 

Jisung, on the other couch, turns his head slowly. He’s clearly brooding. He’s always been the broody kind of high, the biggest disappointment of Minho’s life. Truly, he had been convinced Jisung would be a horny kind of high, or at least the talkative one. 

“I’m just thinking,” Jisung mutters. 

There’s a shitty 90’s movie playing on the TV in front of them, something obnoxious and salacious and definitely scandalous for the date it was released. Now, the movie is just edging on plain controversial, but Jisung had deemed it perfect for getting high, something about it being a perfect mix of juiciness and messy plot twists. 

Minho stares blankly at the scene playing, feeling it illuminate both their faces in bright blue. Jisung seems fairly invested in the scenes flashing on the screen, but Minho honestly lost all focus after the Kevin Bacon full-frontal nude scene. Instead, he turns his face to eye the way Jisung’s shorts have ridden up as he slouches on the couch, noticing how his stomach flexes every time he takes a hit of the poorly rolled joint. 

He sighs. “‘Course you are. What are you thinking so hard about? Picturing Denise Richards’s tits?”

Jisung just shrugs. His legs are spread widely in front of him, all obscene and inviting. God, Minho wants to mark the skin of his thighs up with hickeys. 

“Just feeling broody?” he supplies with a snicker when Jisung doesn’t answer. 

Jisung sighs, turning back to the movie. His eyelashes cast long shadows down his face as the scene switches to something even brighter and more obnoxious. “‘M not broody, it’s just dumb hot in here,” he mumbles through a pout. 

Minho groans and falls back on the other sofa. He’s fucking sweaty everywhere, the fabric of the couch scratching against his slick skin uncomfortably, sweat gathering behind his knees when he bends them. Hell, even his balls are starting to itch with it. “Dude, it’s hot literally everywhere,” he complains. 

“True shit,” Jisung says. “Now shut up, the pool scene is coming.”

Minho snorts. “That scene sucks, bro, that Duquette guy is literally filming them.”

“This whole movie is fucking trashy,” Jisung mutters, but his eyes stay glued to the TV as he slumps into the couch cushions, “At least Duquette dies.”

“And Sam, don’t forget Sam, that guy fucking sucks.”

Jisung hums. “Yeah, he definitely deserves it.”

Minho looks back to the movie. It really is a trashy movie. He reaches for another blunt and lights it to keep his hands from fidgeting, inhaling the smoke deeply before letting it out into the already stuffy room. 

“Hey,” he says after a moment of silence. Jisung turns to look at him in question. His pupils are dilated, eyes all dark and hair messy in a sexed-up kind of way that makes Minho want to run his fingers through it, to tug on it. Minho blames the weed and borderline pornographic movie for the way he squirms in his seat.

“Yeah?” Jisung gestures for him to go on.

Minho tears his eyes away from the display in front of him, clearing his throat. He needs to get his head out of the gutter, shit. 

“Do you miss him? Seungmin,” he asks, watching carefully as Jisung’s face contorts into something he doesn’t know how to read.

“I guess,” Jisung says, shrugging. 

He doesn't know if he expected Jisung to be honest with him, but it throws him off for a second. Shaking his head, he mutters, “Dude. You gotta get over him. He was a dumbass.”

Jisung groans and sits up straighter. His legs close too, which is a shame for Minho’s smoke-logged brain, all horned up and stoned.

“Minho. I’m over him,” Jisung deadpans, “I literally just got fucked by you yesterday. Shouldn’t that tell you something?”

Minho frowns. Something about that feels wrong. “Ugh, you’re so salty,” he grumbles, refusing to acknowledge the way Jisung's comment definitely doesn't sit right with him. “I’m just sayin’, he doesn’t deserve your broody thoughts.”

Jisung rolls his eyes, throwing a rolled-up piece of paper at Minho, who dodges, laughing when Jisung cracks a smile. 

“I’m not brooding,” he insists.

“Sure.” Minho turns back to the movie, anticipation welling up in him at the way Suzie is about to kill off Sam — finally something good in this movie, he muses as he watches that douchebag get poisoned on a boat. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Jisung shake his head, but at least he’s smiling now. Better than that brooding salt-man-act that Minho hates to look at.

When the movie ends in a swirl of too-long credits and some cheesy pop-song, he groans and stretches his body. He feels a little dizzy from the heat, a little horny. A lot stoned.

He stands up, only swaying the tiniest bit. He giggles, reaching out to support himself on the armrest of the couch. “Dude. Stand up.”

Jisung looks up at him. “Why?”

“We’re doing something,” he says decidedly, stretching down a hand for Jisung to grab.

“Now?” Jisung looks reluctant but takes Minho’s hand anyway. Minho pulls him up with a groan.

“Right fucking now, come on,” he declares, “I forgot how much of a fucking downer you are when you're high, so let’s do something.”

“Like what?”

Going to McDonald’s in the middle of the night, stoned and all, maybe isn’t his best idea to date, but seeing Jisung try to ride his trashy, old bike down the empty sideway without crashing almost cancels it out. He’s trying not to burst a blood vessel laughing, watching as Jisung shakily gets on the bike for the fifth time after falling over. Jisung is laughing too, the melodic sound of his laughter echoing down the empty street, streetlights illuminating the joy on his face, unrestrained. It’s Minho’s favorite look on him, delight in its purest form.

They get chicken tenders and sit beneath a flickering streetlight on the curb, pressed together. There are more people here, and Jisung points discreetly at one man in a grey suit, asking “what about that guy?” like they used to back in high school when they would skip school to sit and talk shit in the park.

Minho chews while studying the man, one hand holding one of Jisung’s cigarettes. The man is walking at a hurried pace down the street with a briefcase, looking all serious a couple of hours before the crack of dawn. Odd.

“I bet he’s into, like, some real kinky shit,” Minho starts, eyes on the poor man, “But his wife doesn’t want to try it, so now he’s going to fuck his gay lover and probably, like, piss on him.”

Jisung laughs, smacking Minho on the arm. “His name is probably Carl or some shit,” he adds. Minho snorts and takes a drag of the cigarette before handing it back to Jisung. "Maybe he uses cherry flavored lube too."

Minho scoffs. “Okay okay, what about her?” he asks, nodding to a random girl.

Jisung looks at the girl Minho is gesturing to, contemplating — they do take this game rather seriously. The girl in question is leaning against the crumbling brick wall of the convenience store opposite McDonald's, smoking a cigarette absentmindedly while her other hand is tapping on her phone. She's wearing a green beret and a denim-on-denim situation that she pulls off surprisingly well, topped off with black Birkenstocks. It’s the one-strap ones too, making her feet appear strangely long. 

"Man, I don't know, she looks cooler than us," Jisung says, stuffing another piece of chicken in his mouth.

"Yo!” Minho exclaims, “You know who she looks like?" 

Jisung shakes his head, eyes on Minho now.

"She totally looks like that girl you dated in freshman year, remember?" he asks, "What was her name again? She wore Birkenstocks too, all year round, remember?”

"Dude, you’re so right.” Jisung glances at the girl again, briefly. “Ellen.”

Minho hums, nodding. “I liked Ellen, too bad she turned out to be a lesbian. Should've known with those shoes of hers, though.”

Jisung throws his head back with a laugh, shoving Minho on the shoulder. “Shut the fuck up, you never liked her!”

“Did too!” 

“I distinctly remember you threatening to commit gay on gay domestic violence,” Jisung says, turning to grab another chicken tender.

“Obviously,” Minho frowns, “After she facebook-dumped you.”

Jisung snickers and kicks a pebble in front of them. At least he's smiling, even with his red eyes and ruffled up hair. 

"It was really rude of her," he continues, looking out into the street unseeingly. "She was lucky to have you."

Beside him, Jisung stays quiet, but the smile never wavers. 

* * *

It's almost been a week of only Jisung and regular orgasms and takeout and AC when Minho is finally forced to burst their little bubble.

Felix calls him early that morning, asking him to come look over a choreography that he and Hyunjin are working on, something about it being a tad off, the two being unable to point it out, needing an unbiased opinion, yada yada. Minho had complained for show, pretended like it was a whole travesty for him, just to tease Felix a little. Keep him on his toes. 

He had felt vaguely bad about leaving Jisung to his own devices for the day, but Jisung had assured him that he wanted to explore the city a little more, wanted to look at some music stores. So they split up for the day, and Minho tries not to let it annoy him. 

He takes a seat on the floor in the back of the room, watching as Hyunjin fiddles with the stereo off to the side, Felix gulping down water before pushing sweaty bangs off his forehead. The room is heady with heat even with the shaky AC pushing out cold air, and Minho sniggers when Hyunjin turns and flashes his sweat-soaked shirt, the material fucking drenched.

Minho met Felix when he was still living in that first rundown apartment of his, surrounded by unattached, dreaming artists like he was himself back then, trying to make it as a dancer. His neighbors to the left were a strange pair, quiet by day but screaming by bedtime, keeping Minho up at ungodly hours of the night. He never confronted them about it. 

To the right, though, lived a foreigner from Australia who always sported a smile and a friendly greeting whenever they would pass each other on the stairs with groceries or a stack of mail. 

It hadn’t been his intention to become friends with Felix, preferring to keep his distance, but then they ran into each other at that old dance studio he worked at and Minho couldn’t keep up his front against Felix’s charms.

Neither of them worked there anymore. Minho moved out of his apartment first, then Felix. Hyunjin followed easily, worming his way into their friendship. Minho had tolerated him because he genuinely liked Felix, and Felix seemed to like this beanstalk of a twink. 

So they became friends. And coworkers, when this studio opened and Minho managed to put in a good word for his two friends. 

The choreography they show him is good, sensual but high in energy, and they discuss it for a while. It's almost a relief to talk about dance again after a week off work and only having Jisung as his company, but he's quick to bite back that thought when Felix leans back on his hands, legs spread wide, and asks, “You down for drinks tonight?

“Can't."

Hyunjin sits up from where he had been lying on the floor, groaning. “C’mon Minho, one of Chan's rich friends is throwing a huge thing in his apartment in Soho," he says, like that would ever convince Minho of anything, "I've heard it's very shi-shi. You should come."

Minho scrunches his nose. "You know I hate bougie shit like that."

Felix groans as well, nudging Minho with his foot. "Come on, Minho, you've been gone all week!"

"My friend is visiting from Korea," he explains, hoping it's enough to get him out of drinking at some minted dude's huge apartment in Lower Manhatten. There's probably nothing he would hate more. 

"Fuck yeah, I forgot about that," Felix says, just as Hyunjin lights up and exclaims, "Bring him! I wanna meet this mysterious friend."

"Absolutely not."

Their groans come in tandem and Minho giggles. Ah, he had almost forgotten this. Sweet, sweet bullying; it keeps him young. 

"Fine, I'll ask him," he says at last, but only because their simultaneous whining becomes too much and he's almost positive Jisung will decline. 

* * *

Minho yanks a colorful shirt from the hanger in his closet, leaving it to swing precariously. Spinning on his heel, he throws the shirt at Jisung’s face.

“Wear this,” he says, pouting.

Jisung eyes the shirt with offence, holding it up in front of himself. “I can’t wear this.”

Minho frowns. “Why not?” 

“It’s...” Jisung trails off, a pondering look on his face as he takes in the shirt. “I don’t even know how to describe this disaster of a shirt.”

“Fuck you, I like this shirt.” 

“You would.”

Minho gapes, smacking Jisung across the head, who sniggers. He puts the shirt on, though, turning to adjust it in the mirror

Minho throws himself on the bed. “See? It looks good on you.”

Jisung catches his eyes through the mirror. “Yeah?”

“Mh. Definitely.”

Jisung smoothes down the fabric, running a hand through his hair as he studies his reflection.

Minho crosses his arms behind his head. “You sure you wanna go?” he asks, again, because he knows Jisung is usually a big homebody and the fact that he agreed immediately when Minho extended the invitation to him feels off, “We can just stay home. Those parties are shit anyway.”

“No, I wanna go,” Jisung insists, turning to face Minho. “I wanna meet your friends too.”

So they meet with Hyunjin inside, the taller greeting Jisung enthusiastically, dragging them over to the bar, shoving a drink in their hand each. 

"Isn't this great?" he yells before sniffing the air dramatically, "Smells like a fucking good time, doesn't it?!"

Jisung cracks up underneath the arm Minho has draped over his shoulder while Minho rolls his eyes. "It smells like someone pissed on the floor and didn't bother cleaning it up," he yells, enjoying the way Hyunjin pretends like he doesn't hear.

Really, the party does smell like a dissonant mix of expensive perfumes and ragged sweat dripping from hairlines, overpriced drinks and groups of people who’re all having the same, old, boring discussions, watching with judgment as the people free of precautions dance in the living room turned dance floor.

Minho has never liked these, always turning down invitations from Hyunjin and Felix and even Chris occasionally, but watching the way Jisung's eyes shine with excitement when Hyunjin steals him from Minho is almost worth it. So, he'll endure it. 

They end up getting separated somewhere between Hyunjin running off, Jisung accepting a sickly sweet looking drink from a flirty stranger, and Minho deciding he would rather not watch Jisung dance with someone else. Because of course they do. 

He sits on the bottom of the staircase leading upstairs, staring out of the open balcony door, only allowing himself to feel a tiny bit bad for himself. The city skyline winks at him, and Minho briefly wonders if one of the far-away lights could be his apartment, a little, insignificant dot on the skyline. He sips on his drink. Is he having an existential crisis?

He looks back into the living room. The dancing mass of people is like one moving body. If Jisung is in there, he would be the heart, probably. The stranger would be a foreign virus, infiltrating.

Shaking his head with a snort, Minho gathers himself to stand up just as another person plops down next to him.

”Uh, hey,” he says.

The girl smiles at him briefly, eyes on the dancing monster in the living room. She wiggles as she adjusts her dress, shoving her drink into Minho’s hand.

“Hi,” she replies, eyes never straying. Minho looks at the drink in her hand, something akin to what the virus had offered to buy for Jisung. The girl seems a little reckless, trusting some random guy at some party to hold her drink while she adjusts her dress.

”You good?” he asks, just to be nice.

The girl finally turns to Minho, sighing. She shrugs. “You?” she counters, smiling as she accepts her drink back.

Minho laughs, then shrugs in the same fashion as her. 

“I see,” she snickers, turning her eyes to gaze out on the skyline. Minho follows her lead, suddenly not in a rush to leave the staircase.

”I wish you could see the stars more clearly, na mean?” she says. It’s almost drowned by the music, but Minho hears the way her thick New York accent curls around the words. He snorts; it reminds him of his boss back at the studio who calls him son and says things like "fuckin' kids shouldn'ta messed wi' me, this property costed me alotta fuckin' guap," whenever he goes to scare off the art kids next door before they drill holes in the walls to hang their paintings, dusting his hands off all self-satisfied. 

It's a beat before he blinks and focuses back on the girl, finding her looking at him.

“Yeah,” he agrees, mindlessly. He’s never really thought that much about it, but perhaps seeing the stars once in a while would be nice. Stargazing is cool, right? Top tier romance stuff. Minho wonders if Jisung likes stargazing.

“So what’s your sign?” The girl smiles at him, one dimple forming in her left cheek.

“Uh, what? Sign?”

”Like, star sign,” she explains with a giggle tickling his ear, voice just loud enough to overpower the music, “Zodiac sign?”

"Scorpion, I think."

She giggles. “Scorpio?” 

"Yeah. That."

She studies him for a bit, eyes trailing over his face before she nods decidedly, leaning in to talk into his ear. She smells nice. Something sweet and a little sharp. Like flowers.

He doesn't catch what she says, but nods anyway. 

Somehow, his eyes catch on Jisung, dancing, throwing his head back and laughing between the bodies moving. He looks like he's having the time of his life out there and Minho huffs out a little laugh.

The girl leans back, still talking. “But since you're a Scorpio, you probably wouldn't agree, right? You're kind of tsundere," she's saying. Minho focuses back on her. "But you get it, right? Fuck, it’s so loud in here! Let’s go outside.”

Minho agrees easily, only looking at Jisung briefly before picking up his drink. He follows close behind her as she leads him out to a slightly less packed deck, eyeing the way she almost stands to his height in her pointy heels.

They settle on a white couch, breathing in the fresh air, the music from inside slightly more muffled. She places her drink on the table in front of them, getting cozy on the couch. He follows her lead, a respectable distance between them. 

"Hey." She nudges his leg. "Why are you all by yourself at this grand, grand party, Mr. Scorpion?"

He snorts. "This party is shit, and I could ask you the same thing, anyway."

"Touché."

He shrugs, grinning when it clearly frustrates her.

She rolls her eyes. "You're such a Scorpio, you know that?"

"I don't."

"You're like... Enigmatic," she says. Her cheeks are flushed from the alcohol, lips red. She's beautiful against the white couch, her long, black hair sticking to the fabric. It kind of looks like wings, Minho thinks, if he squints and tilts his head a little. "Mysterious, stubborn. Your ruling body is Pluto, Sir, it's not exactly lighthearted stuff."

He can still see Jisung from here, and it's fucking with his alcohol-fueled brain. He should look away, pay attention to this girl psychoanalyzing the shit out of him. 

“Pluto?” he manages, forcing his eyes back on her. His leg is jumping, restless energy thrumming through his body.

”Yeah. Means that you have like... a dark side,” she says, “Some would say jealous and possessive, but I don’t think you’re either. Usually.”

Minho raises his eyebrows. “Usually?”

She grins, gestures into the living room. “You have your eye on him, haven't you?” she asks. Minho snaps his head towards Jisung, surprised, before looking back. He wasn’t aware that he had been looking at Jisung so obviously for her to figure everything out.

“I...” he starts. He looks at Jisung again. He does have his eye on Jisung, why even try to hide it? It’s clearly obvious to anyone around him. “Yeah, I guess,” he answers.

The girl nods ominously, kind of freakishly. Minho can feel her watching him, feels like he’s being scrutinized and examined and analyzed. And he is, scarily correctly too, because apparently this girl can tell everything about Minho based on something as superficial as the date he was born.

“You haven’t told him, have you?” she asks then.

“He’s my best friend.” Minho says it like it explains everything. Maybe it does.

“I see.” She leans forward and fixes her hair in the reflection of an abandoned, half-empty glass. “What sign is he?”

Minho snorts. “I have no fucking clue. September 14th.”

The girl fixes her lipstick too before nodding. “So he’s a Virgo,” she chirps, “Not exactly a match for a Scorpio.”

Minho groans and sinks down further on the white couch. The stars aren’t on his side either, because _of course_ they aren’t. It reminds him of when Jisung was in that Romeo and Juliet play back in middle school, where he played Romeo and kissed Yoojin Kim on the lips in front of the whole school. Minho remembers watching him from the sidelines back then too.

They were star-crossed, Romeo and Juliet, but their love was required and Romeo sacrificed everything to be with Juliet despite their thwarted faith. Maybe Minho is allowed to feel bad for himself, after all, watching as his Romeo dances with a Juliet of a different play.

“Hey, don’t feel bad,” the girl says, fishing a lipstick up from a bedazzled handbag. “You know how they say, stars predispose, but people dispose.”

He nods like he understands. She sends him a bright smile before turning to lay a fresh layer of lipstick on her lips. 

"You should, though," she says then, words distorted from the way she holds her lips slack underneath the tip of the lipstick "Tell him."

Minho doesn't say anything. She doesn't know how much it would complicate things, how many things would change, and they're not like that. They don't let small things change them. 

Maybe, if he repeats it enough times, he will actually believe it. 

The girl looks at him warily. "I know it's not in your nature, being a Scorpio and all, but suffering from unrequited love just because you're afraid of making a move to win his heart? It isn't a vibe, man."

"You're so omniscient." Minho snorts, shaking his head in disbelief. "Are you a witch?"

The girl giggles loudly into the night, shrugging teasingly. 

He doesn’t end up getting her name before Jisung is barreling into him, dragging him away from the deck. Minho goes willingly; he’s always been a weak man. He catches the girl wink at him, a smirk tugging on her red lips, as Jisung clutches his arm and breathes hotly into his ear.

"I told myself," Minho grunts, Jisung's heavy body noncompliant as he attempts to drag him to the bathroom, "that I wouldn't peel you off the floor after you inevitably crashed and burned in your fucking— ah, fuck you're heavy— Your cross-faded coma."

Jisung giggles into his neck, the complete deadweight. It tickles his skin, and Minho barely compresses the shudder that runs down his spine. Getting to the bathroom really isn't an easy task with Jisung draped over him like this and the mess of rumpled clothes littering the random bedroom floor that Minho crashed when Jisung inevitably got too drunk and high and whatever the hell he's accepted from rich men. Jisung stumbles against something, too, just to top it off, and Minho grunts as Jisung clings to him even harder, pulling in his shirt with one hand. 

"'M sorry, Min," he mumbles into Minho's neck, words slurring together. 

Minho hums absentmindedly. "Mh, I'm sure you are."

"I am," Jisung insists weakly, "I wanted your friends to like me."

Minho snorts, adjusting his hold on Jisung so he can use one hand to fumble with the handle of the bathroom door, using Jisung's body to push it open. "What? You think they're impressed by the number of shots you downed?"

Jisung giggles. "T'was impressive though, no?"

"No," Minho deadpans, slightly strained as he huffs out a breath while lowering Jisung down next to the fancy toilet, opening it for him. He gestures to it, prying Jisung's hands off his shirt and plopping down against the wall opposite him. 

Jisung groans, pushing himself away from the toilet and slumping against the bathtub instead. It's made of marble, white and sleek. "'M not gonna puke."

"Yeah?" Minho snickers, "You look like you're gonna."

"'M not."

"Okay."

Jisung takes a deep breath, closing his eyes. Minho stretches his legs out in front of him, leaning his head back against the wall. They have warm floors here. It truly is fancy, huh.

"I feel like shit," Jisung croaks. 

Minho laughs, eyes on the ceiling. There's a stain up there. Odd. Doesn't fit the shi-shi theme they have going on in this apartment. He eyes the rainfall shower and glass panels, cursing his own hit-or-miss shower where the door doesn't work and the shower curtain is stained brown. 

When he looks back down at Jisung, the other is already looking at him. 

"What?"

Jisung shrugs. "You look good today."

"You're drunk."

Jisung hums, a small smirk on his lips. “Do I look good too?”

“Hm,” Minho hums, tilting his head, “You look very... Heroin chic.”

Jisung sniggers, slumping down further against the bathtub. He leans his head back against it, swallowing thickly. 

"You just need the bleached buzzcut and a skimpy tee and you're basically Mark Renton."

Jisung looks up at that. "Hey, that's not a bad idea."

“What?" 

"Bleaching my hair." Jisung runs a hand through his brown locks. "I've always wanted to be a blonde. I’ve been told they have more fun."

Minho shakes his head with a snort. “I think you’ve had enough fun today, Rent Boy.”

Jisung points at him, grinning. His finger is shaky where he attempts to keep it pointing at Minho. “We are so dyeing my hair.”

Minho shrugs. "Fine," he replies, "Should we buzz it too?"

"Nah.” He runs his fingers through his hair again, and Minho curses the way his eyes get caught on the way his bicep bulges with the movement. “What are you gonna hold on to when I blow you, then?”

Minho's eyes do _not_ bulge out of his skull at the comment. They really don't. It's just that Minho is unprepared every single time Jisung decides to bring up the fact that, oh yeah, they had sex. Multiple times. Both ways, cock in ass, condoms disposed of, sickening cherry lube all over Minho's bedsheets. The whole thing. The only thing missing now is actually talking about it, like the grown adults they are, but Minho knows _he_ isn't going to be the one to bring it up, so Jisung is going to have to be the one to bite the bullet.

And so far he hasn't. Not really, at least.

Jisung, slumped over and looking like actual death on crack, stares unwaveringly, almost like he's challenging Minho to acknowledge what he said. Minho swallows around his heart in his throat. 

"Should we dye your pubes as well?" is what comes out of his mouth after a beat. 

A slight frown passes over Jisung's face, but it's gone almost as soon as it gets there. Then he snorts, shakes his head. “Shut the fuck up.”

Minho breathes out unsteadily. “Just sayin'," he mumbles.

“We’re not dying my pubes, bro.”

“I think it would look nice," Minho argues, wishing he could just shut up for once in his life, "Matching drapes and carpet and all."

Jisung winces through a laugh. “That’s disgusting."

Minho hums, sliding further down the wall. “You’re no fun, Han."

Jisung doesn't respond, just kind of stares at him for a while and Minho feels himself shrink under his gaze, gulping. 

Then, Jisung sighs and says, "You can't even talk about it, can you?"

"I can," Minho mumbles.

"Hm?"

"I can talk about it, bro," Minho insists, "Easy."

Jisung wiggles his eyebrows obnoxiously, making Minho roll his eyes. He pokes Minho's leg with his own. "Talk about what?" he asks, voice full of mischief despite the way his speech is slurred with alcohol and the remains of Felix's brownies.

Minho groans, kicking Jisung's leg back. "Peter."

"That you can't get enough of this cock?" Jisung raises his eyebrows. Cocky motherfucker.

"I'm leaving," he announces. Jisung cracks up, sinking down further on the floor. 

* * *

Morning in New York City is never really morning. The bustling of people and cars down below never stops, never takes a break. At night, the city lights up with laughter and drunken yelling and the day is filled with businessmen worming their way through crowds, trying to get to work, the neverending stream of cars honking at each other and the occasional passerby. 

Really, the quiet of morning never comes. 

And Minho forgot to close the window last night.

Beside him on the bed, Jisung groans, burrowing his head under the pillow. Minho snorts, propping himself up on an elbow so he can reach his phone. A slight headache is pounding behind his eyes, but he’s had worse. It’s easy to ignore. 

Memories from last night are blurry, hazy behind his eyelids. He shifts under the sheets, glancing over at Jisung. 

“Did you know the planet of, like... my whole life, is Pluto? Isn’t that fucked up?”

“Pluto isn’t a planet,” Jisung says, voice muffled.

“Exactly,” Minho says, staring up at the ceiling with a frown, “Apparently it makes me like some kind of dark horse, mysterious existence of esotericness.”

Jisung heaves himself up from his slump, hair sticking in every direction from being under the pillow. He stares at Minho, mouth open. Then he laughs. “Bro, what? I don't think that's a word.”

“I’m serious!” Minho grumbles. “That stupid dwarf planet seriously fucked me up.”

“Since when do you care about astrology?” Jisung snorts. 

“It’s fascinating.”

“Sounds mad pretentious if you ask me.”

Minho rolls his eyes. “It’s not. Look, I’m a Scorpio, right? That means I’m apparently all mysterious and bad at love.”

"All that because you were born in October?" Jisung asks.

"All according to the stars." He sighs, runs a hand through his hair. "Apparently I would rather suffer from unrequited love than tell anyone I love them."

Jisung gapes at him. "Dude."

" _Dude_ , Pluto thinks I'm a fucking coward." He raises his eyebrows. "I can tell people I love them. The stars don't know shit."

Jisung laughs, shaking his head. “Alright, sure, keep jacking your cock to the stars or whatever, but I’m gonna go shower now, I feel fucking sticky everywhere.”

“Spoilsport,” Minho mutters. “High school Jisung would love this shit.”

Jisung rolls his eyes, sitting up and stretching. “High school Jisung also wore eyeliner and jerked off to hentai."

"Unrelated!" 

Jisung laughs, patting Minho on the chest before sitting up and trudging into the adjacent bathroom with heavy footsteps. Minho stares up into the ceiling and listens as Jisung turns on the water, running a hand over his face. He heaves out a long sigh. 

It's not like he expected Jisung to acknowledge what he was trying to say. Hell, maybe he hadn't even wanted Jisung to. They're not like that. They're straightforward with each other, no games, no ironic remarks to throw the other off. They've always told each other the truth, always casual, always on the same wave-length. 

He thinks back to the nameless girl back in that stupidly swanky Soho apartment, telling him to make a move, feeling his heart clench as Jisung danced with some guy that wasn't him. 

In the end, he joins Jisung in his shitty, old shower and doesn’t mention it again.

* * *

“I brought brownies!” Felix announces, holding up a plastic container with the gold inside proudly. 

Minho snorts, watching as Felix throws the container on the coffee table carelessly, running a tan hand through his bleached mullet before shrugging off his horrendous corduroy jacket that belongs in the same decade as Minho’s green couches.

“Brownie boy is here!” Jacob bellows, passing the joint in his hand to someone else so he can hug Felix, pushing away Chris, who chuckles and disappears into the kitchen, returning with a pack of cheap beer for the non-smokers.

They're at Minho's apartment, which he would usually complain about because his friends are pigs and they tend to trash the place they're smoking that day, littering the floors with emptied beer cans and candy wrappers, the occasional bong. 

He had agreed to host this time, though, because Jacob and Kevin usually do but they had said something about painting their living room, so they were unable to, unfortunately. Minho had seen right through their bullshit, but Jisung had been looking forward to meeting the rest of Jisung's friendgroup since he let it slip that he usually reserved Sundays for smoking with them.

So he's hosting, but not happily. 

Minho rolls his eyes when Chris plops down on the couch beside them, offering a beer to Hyunjin. “Hyunjin and Chris are fucking weed snobs,” he informs Jisung, who laughs loudly as Hyunjin protests. 

"I'm not a weed snob," Hyunjin informs them, "I just don't trust your rolling technique."

Minho shoots Jisung a _look_ while Hyunjin isn't looking, mouthing _weed snob_ to make Jisung laugh harder. He laughs too, when Hyunjin attempts a swing at him, holding his hands up innocently.

”Just ‘cuz you’re shit at rolling,” he mutters. 

“I ain’t shit,” Minho scowls, “You should see Jisung roll then.”

”Yo, don’t bring me into your weird bromance,” Jisung laughs. “My rolling technique is flawless, you’re not even close to being on my level.”

”Such a fat lie, Peter,” Minho exclaims, pointing at him. His mind is fuzzy and he doesn’t even pretend to be annoyed when Hyunjin sides with Jisung like he normally would. 

Shit, maybe Kevin laced the weed with something. Like a fuzzy drug. Druzz. Yep, that’s it.

It makes him all fond, when Jisung clearly gets along with his friends, laughing and joking with them easily, handling all of Hyunjin's bullshit like they’ve been friends forever, getting caught in a conversation with Chris about their shared love for music, clicking instantly with Felix and Kevin, laughing with Eric over something Daisy said.

Minho feels a private smile tug at his mouth, watching it.

Hyunjin pulls him aside later that night, dragging him out to the fire escape with one hand clamped on Minho's arm.

"Ow, fuck dude, let go," Minho whines, batting Hyunjin's hand off. "What the fuck do you want from me?"

"I crave gossip," Hyunjin says. He stands against the metal railing, bare arms crossed over his chest. His hair is in an unruly ponytail that probably looked way more presentable a couple of hours ago, loose strands hanging down to frame his face. 

Minho frowns, leaning his body against the opposite wall. "I don't have any gossip. You should try Jacob though, you know he's a fucking tattletale."

Hyunjin narrows his eyes at Minho. Minho feels his mouth snaps shut, narrowing his eyes back. 

"You two are so fucking weird, man," Hyunjin says then, and Minho doesn't even pretend not to know who he's so clearly referring to. 

"What's that supposed to mean?" he asks after a moment of silence.

"You _know_.” Hyunjin rolls his eyes. “It means I've never seen you like this with a dude before.”

Minho kicks the floor with his slipper-clad foot, staring down at it. Apparently, he has no way around it anymore. "He's my best friend,” he tries, wishing nothing more than for Hyunjin to drop it. 

"Yeah, but I swear you two get, like, mutual love boners every time you bicker," Hyunjin says with a small laugh, gesturing into the living room behind Minho with a tilt of his head. 

"We aren't like that.”

Hyunjin purses his lips, narrows again his eyes. He looks strangely firm, with his arms all crossed over his chest and his muscles bulging. "But you know you could be like that, though, right?"

Minho doesn't reply, looks out into the dark of the night. Hyunjin shakes his head out of the corner of his eye. 

"What exactly is going on between you, anyway?" Hyunjin presses. 

Minho clears his throat. "Tomfoolery?" he offers, weakly. 

Hyunjin rolls his eyes with a suffering sigh, fixing Minho with a judgemental stare. He can't help but shrink a little under his gaze, pressing his arms further into his chest. He feels exposed and it makes him fiddle where he stands, switching his weight from one foot to the other.

"Okay," Hyunjin drawls, "Is it just physical?"

Minho hesitates. He knows, of course he does, that it isn't. For him, at least. Maybe it never was, even though he thought it started out like that, back in October last year, when Jisung had been the first to shrug it off like it was nothing. He hates the way his heart beats a million miles an hour as Hyunjin stares expectantly at him, high in his throat as if it's going to spill right out with his words. 

"Yes. I— I guess it is." 

"You guess?"

Minho throws his head back with a groan, squeezing his eyes shut in frustration. When he looks back up, Hyunjin has this calculating look on his face that pisses him the fuck off. "Look," he says, "If I knew, fuck, I would tell you. You know that, bro. But I have no fucking clue what's going on anymore." 

Hyunjin stares at him, then sighs and pushes himself off the railing of the fire escape, only uncrossing his arms to pat Minho on the shoulder. "Figure it out," he says, like it's the best fucking advice Minho has ever gotten. _Oh sure, genius, I didn't even think of that! Thank you so much!_

When they crawl back in through the window, Jisung is slumped over the green couch. He looks faded, his green shirt swallowing him up before he becomes one with the couch, the neckline stretched out and showing his collarbones, makes him look rightfully fuckable. Minho wants to mark his neck back up, make sure everyone knows they're fucking. 

Because that's what they are, just fucking. 

And even if Jisung did feel something for him, it wouldn't work. They live on two opposite sides of the globe, a 14-hour flight between them. And Minho is nothing if not a realist; he'll find a way to deal with this before it goes too far. 

In the living room, Kevin is saying, "Look, all I'm saying is that bottoming is fucking mentally draining, na mean?" and Felix is nodding along from where he's practically melting into Chris's side. 

"Sex is fucking mentally draining," Daisy mutters from the floor, hands fiddling with a deck of cards. 

"I could use sex right now," Eric pipes up from where he's laying on the floor, looking thoroughly zooted, overheated, running his fingers over Minho's rug. 

Minho plops down on the couch opposite of Jisung, kicking Eric's arm gently and watching it flop uselessly. "Stop talking about sex in my living room," he complains, "Nasty boys."

Eric sniggers into the carpet, running his whole hand over it. Minho isn't sure when the last time he cleaned it was. "Okay, Miss Jackson."

He rolls his eyes. His mind is pleasantly whooshy from the weed, but he can't help but fiddle with a stray piece of paper, tearing it apart, as he feels Jisung's eyes on him, watching him. He's noticing a lot of things about Jisung lately — how he's smiling but only when he thinks Minho is looking, how he bites his lip — and not in that sexy way that makes Minho's stomach tingle — more like he's worried, overthinking. He would ask, but then Jisung spreads his legs just a little too wide to be pristine, thighs flattening out over the couch, and Minho's mind screeches to a glaring halt. 

When he zones back into the conversation, the gaudy sex-talk hasn't finished, and Kevin is having a heated discussion with Daisy. "Really?" she asks, tone doubtful, "You guys can come without touching your dick?"

"Obviously," Kevin scoffs, "Why do you think God gave us the prostate?"

"Not for coming untouched, that's for sure," Chris butts in from the couch, his hand trailing up and down Felix's arm absentmindedly. Minho looks away. 

"Yo," Eric says, lifting his head from where he's had it pressed into Minho's carpet for a worrisome amount of time, "I've never commed untouched. Came? Fuck man... Is it just come?"

Daisy gestures to him. "See?" she exclaims, "Honestly, I think you're fucking with me."

"I'm not! Look at him, he's on another planet," he cries, poking Eric before turning to the couch Chris, Felix and Jisung are sharing. Except Chris and Felix are now making out shamelessly, so Jisung's attention is the only one he manages to get, "Guys, you're all gay, back me up!"

"I don't know, man, seems a little impossible." Jisung shrugs. "You have to touch your dick, right?"

"It's definitely possible," Minho cuts in then. All eyes turn to him. "What?"

Jisung throws his head back with a groan, hand tightening on Minho’s asscheeks. His eyes are closed, a tiny frown between his eyebrows, mouth hanging open and letting out sounds every time Minho raises himself on his knees, Jisung's hard cock sliding out of his ass, sinking back down slowly. 

He looks blissed out, the morning sun hitting him from where it's shining in through the curtains, giving him a golden glow. A drop of sweat runs down his stomach, pooling in the caverns of his toned muscles. 

The others left somewhere around 4 A.M. and they had both decided that they didn't want to sleep yet. So, as things tend to go with them, Minho had jumped the opportunity to ride Jisung, _finally_. 

"Fuck," he sighs helplessly, running his hands up Jisung's chest, feeling the way his skin burns, heart racing, heated pleasure prickling up his spine as he moves his hips, feeling Jisung push up to meet him. " _God_ , Jisung."

He tried to set a fast speed at first, enjoying the way he could pull the sweetest sounds from Jisung, but he forgot to keep it up. The way he rolls his hips now is slow, brain-melting, fluid movements that have Jisung's cock running over his prostate with every drag. His own cock is standing proudly between them, pre-come running down the side of it.

He feels Jisung's hands sliding to his thighs, nails digging in as Minho picks up the pace. His eyes flutter open, locking with Minho's. His pupils look pitch black, more blown than Minho thinks he can remember ever seeing them. 

Then he smirks, and Minho feels a shudder go through his body. God, Jisung has no idea what he's doing to him, does he?

Minho slows the pace when Jisung reaches over to the side, relighting the joint they had abandoned, falling back on the couch with a lazy chuckle. Minho rolls his eyes but parts his lips easily when Jisung takes a puff, drawing Minho in by his chin before blowing the smoke into his mouth. Minho holds it for several moments, blowing it back out in Jisung’s face before leaning in for a kiss. 

It's lazy, unrushed, a little dirty, and probably too wet, and Minho whimpers into it when he starts rolling his hips against Jisung’s again. Jisung sneaks his free hand up to circle Minho’s cock, stroking him slowly. The other hand brings the blunt to their mouths again, and Minho pulls away from the kiss to accept it, holding Jisung's gaze as he wraps his lips around it. 

"Fuck, you look so hot, baby," Jisung groans when Minho pulls back, tightening his hand on Minho's cock, squeezing around the head. Minho shivers, letting the smoke out unsteadily with his head tilted back, hips still grinding against Jisung's, slowly, slowly, letting him feel everything. 

On Jisung's next inhale, Minho slides his hand up Jisung's bare stomach to his throat, wrapping his hand around it delectably. Jisung stares up at him with beady eyes, fluttering when Minho applies the tiniest of pressure. Not enough to cut air, but it doesn’t matter — Jisung goes absolutely boneless as he breathes out the smoke, eyes never leaving Minho's. He can feel him gulping under his palm, throat bobbing.

He steals a kiss, loving the way Jisung complies easily, moaning into it as Minho starts to move his hips faster. He releases his throat, sliding his hand up to grip a hold of Jisung's hair instead, tugging his head back. 

"Fucking love this hair on you," he murmurs.

They had used all day yesterday bleaching and dyeing it, and Minho fucking loves the way it looks on him — the way his rosy cheeks stand out more now, the blond glowing against the morning sun. He tugs on it harder, pleasure curling up his spine at the way Jisung just fucking _goes_ , breath hitching, and _god_ , he's so responsive. 

Minho rides him harder, feeling like he might pass out from the overwhelming pleasure, the way he fucks himself down on Jisung's cock, Jisung thrusting upwards, hand twitching around his cock. _Fuck_. 

“I'm gonna die,” Jisung groans, looking completely fucked out as he lets his head rest on the couch, flushed all the way down his chest where Minho’s button-up lays splayed open, red blotches adorning his tanned skin. His hands are digging into Minho's skin painfully and Minho cries out, skin sensitive, set on fire by Jisung's touch.

"Hey," Minho pants as he keeps up the pace with his hips, swallowing hard, "make me come first. Don't be a shitty top."

Jisung whines, hands sliding to Minho's buttocks tightening, urging him to move faster. "You never— ah, shit. You never make me come first."

"Lies," Minho gasps, feeling sweat run down his neck, throwing his head back, "Lies, Han Jisung. I'm the fucking perfect top."

“Minho— ah, fuck, I can't—" Jisung groans, head slamming back into the couch, “Gonna come!”

Minho slows down a little, grinning when Jisung goes slack, his slick, red chest heaving, heady eyes watching Minho like a hawk. The hand wrapped around his cocks speeds up and Minho moans, looking down between them, watching as pre-come runs down Jisung's hand.

"Fuck," he whispers and grabs a hold of Jisung's wrist, removing his hand. "Just let me do this. Don't come."

"Wha—" Jisung barely gets the word out before his eyes roll back, guttural moan falling from his lips as Minho picks up the pace, angling himself backwards with intent. Hands grip his asscheeks again, fingertips digging into the muscle harshly, and it sends a shock of pleasure up his back. He throws his head back, squeezing his eyes shut, one hand on Jisung's shoulder and one behind himself, clutching Jisung's thick thigh as he rolls his hips upwards, _upwards_ , feeling Jisung's cock drag bluntly over his prostrate again and again and-

Heat surges through his body as he spills between them, twitching violently with every wave of his orgasm, unable to hold back the filthy moan that spills out of him, and fuck, it just keeps going, white noise filling his head. He can feel Jisung's cock pulsing inside of him, still fucking rock hard. 

He leans both hands on the back of the couch when his head clears enough to move, breathing harshly, muscles seizing. 

"Bro."

Minho huffs out a gasping laugh, opening his eyes and looking into Jisung's wide ones. "Told you it was possible," he breathes, moving his hips again despite the way oversensitivity shoots up his spine. It's worth it, seeing the way Jisung's eyes roll back, mouth agape. "And don't call me bro while you're in me."

Jisung manages a little chuckle between his groans, his voice getting stuck in his throat as he throws his head back and tightens his hands on Minho's ass, coming with a weak buckle of his hips, face contorting, eyebrows furrowing deeply, mouth hanging open. His cock pulses inside Minho as he thrusts up the best he can. Minho groans at the sensation, leaning down to lay his forehead on Jisung’s, headily murmuring, “Fuck, I love feeling you come inside of me.”

Jisung groans, nails digging into Minho's skin, leaning up and locking them in a lazy kiss that tastes like cheap weed and sex. 

* * *

Jisung finds Minho's old guitar somewhere between the eighth or ninth night, laughing loudly as he pulls the ancient thing from Minho's closet, dusting it off before showing it to Minho proudly. 

He plays around with it while Minho cooks actual food for them for the first time in over a week, stirring together rice and vegetables, humming along to the quiet melody that Jisung plays. There's a song playing on his stereo hooked to Jisung's phone, and the younger pauses for a second to change the song, biting his lip as he scrolls. Minho almost burns himself watching him, recoiling with a hissed curse.

The song that plays next is slower, sensual, and Jisung plays the guitar seamlessly along with it, bobbing his head and smiling from ear to ear. 

Minho makes an attempt at tuning his sweet voice out, stubbornly ignoring the way his heart tries to break some kind of record, heartbeats echoing in his ears. Jisung is going home in a couple of days, he reminds himself as he serves the food on two plates, a little more for Jisung. He'll be flying those 14 hours, more if there's a layover somewhere, and he'll go back to his job, starting that big project that he's so excited for. 

And Minho will go back to his own job at the studio, back to bothering Hyunjin and Felix as his only form of amusement, back to a quiet apartment and talking to the tabby cat on his fire escape in the mornings. Back to the crackling FaceTime calls and bad wifi connections, ignoring the way his heart clenches with the distance between them. 

Really. Minho needs to find a way to get over this. He'll keep it at bay until then. It won't be a problem; sure, the wall he keeps around his heart may be crumbling slowly, but Minho can build it back up easily once Jisung is gone, unable to break it any further.

They eat with the same leisure playlist playing in the background, the songs all slow and blending together as they talk. Jisung tells him more about the project, and it's evident how excited he is to begin. Minho laughs and nods when it's appropriate, putting big serving of food into his mouth to avoid talking. Jisung talks about Minho's friends too, about how he and Felix have been texting a lot, getting along comfortably. The day after Minho had all their friends over, Jisung went to a cafe with him Downtown while Minho took care of some stuff for his boss, getting coffee. He brought some home for Minho too, tells him Felix teased him relentlessly as if he wasn't doing the same thing to Chris. 

It's awfully domestic and Minho startes badly when Jisung kisses him as they're doing the dishes, offering him a small, sweet smile. 

Minho thinks he maybe likes domestic, even if it makes his heart beat a little too fast. 

It progresses into the bedroom naturally, because they're clearly unable to keep their hands off of each other, and Minho wants to kiss Jisung all the time recently, wants to drag his hands through his hair and kiss his cheek and forehead and nose and just talk with him all night, asking him things like "what's your favorite color?" and "do you like my cooking?".

They're down to briefs, bare chests pressed together, when Minho pulls away.

"Can I change the playlist?" he asks, feeling a little winded from Jisung's lips. 

Jisung frowns. "I like this playlist."

Minho sits up between Jisung's legs, running a hand through his hair. He smacks a hand on the inside of Jisung's thigh, watching him jump. "You’re lying."

"Kinda," he giggles, reaching out with both hands and hooking his fingers into the thin material of Minho's boxers, tugging him back down, "Don’t change it, though."

He goes easily, reconnecting their lips, feeling his heart jump. There's no way they're fucking to this playlist; his heart will not be able to handle it. The song playing makes chills run up his back under Jisung's fingertips, the melody slow and the lyrics sorrowful. Somehow, Minho feels soothed by the soft voice as he looks into Jisung’s eyes. The beat is soft, settling around the room like a heavy blanket of nostalgic melancholy, wrapping them up, and Minho almost gets lost in it as Jisung kisses him. 

He pulls back, though, turning his face to the side and pressing his eyes shut. "We’re not fucking to this."

Jisung rolls his eyes, patting one hand on Minho's ass, grabbing a hold of it and forcing Minho to grind down on him harder. "Why? It’s good to bang to."

Minho shudders unsteadily. "It’s cheesy."

"That’s the charm." Jisung grins, and god, Minho needs him to stop. 

"You’re so full of shit," he says, but it sounds weak even to his own ears, "You hate cheesy shit."

"Name a better playlist than this to bang to," Jisung challenges, a glint in his eye, "Their name is literally Cigarettes after Sex. I think this is what they wanted when they wrote this album. It's romantic."

Minho leans down and shuts him up with a kiss. It's slow, like the song, and Jisung seems like he doesn't mind, like he's not even aware that Minho struggles to find his breath in the face of Jisung's kisses, that he is absolutely, not even _close_ to being capable of having sex while some slow, heady love song plays in the background. With their bare chests pressed together like this, Minho is sure Jisung can feel the way his heart is pounding. He doesn't make a move to raise himself back up, though. 

So, they fuck underneath Minho’s cheap LED lights, Jisung’s skin illumined in a purple glow against the sheets. The damned playlist fills the room with slow songs, and Minho groans — it really is the worst playlist Jisung could’ve chosen for fucking, and he tries to tune it out with Jisung's quiet moans and gasps, but somewhere between Minho finally sliding into Jisung and them finishing, their movements start slowing with the songs, Minho’s thrusts matching the soft beat, their lips moving slower and slower until they’re only sharing breaths, eyes locked.

It’s not until after, when he's trying to catch their breaths and their bodies are sticking together uncomfortably with sweat, that Minho realizes his cheeks are wet. He startles, drying them as fast as he can before Jisung can see. Jisung is dozed off on top of him, though, and Minho would be inclined to just let him fall asleep if it wasn’t for the way both of their come is starting to dry between their stomachs. He looks to the ceiling, one arm around Jisung’s shoulders and the other behind his head. Truthfully, he could lay like this for forever, just basking in the afterglow of his orgasm with the quiet puffs of Jisung’s breath on his neck. But — shower. They need to shower.

He thinks Jisung maybe notices his red eyes once they're under the sharp light of Minho's bathroom, so he does the only thing he can think of, dropping to his knees in a desperate act of cowardliness, working his mouth over Jisung’s cock until he has hands clutching his wet hair painfully, groans filling the small room over the sound of water pouring down over them. He doesn’t dare to look up, afraid of what he might see, or what he’ll let slip if he does. 

He gets himself off before Jisung comes, absolutely terrified of the intimacy of standing up and letting Jisung stroke him to an orgasm, their mouths locked, naked and vulnerable pressed together under the stream of water. The intimacy they just shared in bed threw him the fuck off-kilter, and now he feels like he’s teetering on the edge of something he can’t control. Something he absolutely can’t hold back. 

When he stands up, Jisung thankfully leans back on the cold tiles with closed eyes, muttering blissfully about getting his soul sucked out through his dick. The way Minho doesn’t laugh goes unnoticed.

He washes off his body quickly, unable to shake the thought that they had just fucking— made love, or something. His heart, honest to god, skips a beat at the thought. But he can't— He can't be thinking that. It's dangerous. 

"Are you okay?" 

"Hm?" Minho turns to Jisung, "Me? I'm fine."

"You're shaking."

He breathes out unsteadily, glancing at his hands. They're trembling. Jisung pushes up against him from behind, bare front pressed to Minho's back, arms sliding around his waist and hands gliding up his stomach. The water pours over them, starting to turn cold.

"'S the orgasm," he manages, squeezing his eyes shut when Jisung kisses his neck gently. 

Against his back, Jisung's heartbeat is strong, matching his own. 

* * *

It’s another day and another pretentious party in an overpriced Soho apartment, and Minho should really stop bringing Jisung here before his heart completely shatters, but Hyunjin and Felix have both taken a liking to him, and god knows Minho doesn't have the balls to refuse Jisung, even if Jisung is leaving tomorrow and Minho wants to keep Jisung for himself. Hyunjin and Felix had insisted, though, to let Jisung go out with a bang. 

They had gotten ready together, and Jisung had kissed him again, unprompted, while Minho was deciding between two shirts. Minho had forgotten to kiss back in surprise, attempting to stutter out something coherent, but Jisung had walked out before he could. In the cab, too, Jisung had held his hand shamelessly.

Minho had to wonder if the world could be _that_ cruel to him. 

It's not a surprise when they get separated after dancing most of the night, pressed together, mouths sealed, though he does catch Jisung talking to a guy at the bar, his hand touching Jisung's arm, a bashful smile, rosy cheeks, and Minho gets _drunk_. Drunker than he has for a while, on the edge of a fucking blackout.

He stumbles away from the bar, back into the dancefloor to lose his mind. There's a girl who latches onto him, and Minho just accepts it, feels a little hopeless when they lock lips and they're thick and taste like strawberries instead of thin and with stubbles around them to give Minho a slight beard burn. She's shorter than him instead of almost the same height, hair long and black, not short and newly bleached. He tries to tune it out, focussing on not letting his mind wander too far. 

Until she starts kissing him down the neck and his eyes lock with Jisung's. 

Something in him shatters and he pushes her off, gently. His heart is pounding, dread settling in his stomach. Fuck, he messed up. 

“What? You got a girlfriend or something?” she asks. Her voice is kind of annoying, shrill.

Minho doesn't pay her any mind, staring at Jisung through the crowd. He's not moving, but he's alone now. The bright, flashing neon lights hit the side of his face, illuminating it in pink, blue, orange. Everything about the way he's looking at Minho screams _wrong, wong, Minho you fucking idiot._

The girl looks over her own shoulder. “Oh shit, you got a boyfriend?”

“He’s not my boyfriend," Minho mutters like it's coded into his brain. God, his head hurts. Jisung is furrowing his eyebrows, taking a tentative step forwards. 

“Okay. Wanna have sex?”

Minho looks down at her then, snaps, “No, what the fuck?"

“Are you asexual, or something?”

Minho opens his mouth to snap something back, but Jisung steps between them, completely disregarding the girl, who huffs and walks away, _thankfully_ , muttering to herself, flipping her hair. 

"Can we leave?" Jisung asks. His face looks dejected, sunken in, nothing like the Jisung he arrived with earlier. 

Ne nods. "Yeah, 'course."

The ride home is silent. It's painfully awkward. Jisung is looking away from him pointedly, keeping his hands firmly in his lap. 

Minho feels himself sober up considerably like someone has thrown a bucket of cold water in his face, slapped him, and then scolded him. He pays the driver while Jisung practically storms into his apartment building, climbing the stairs with long strides. 

"Jisung!" he calls, skipping every other step to catch up with him on the staircase, "Hey, slow down, come on!"

Jisung doesn't stop until he's at Minho's apartment, pacing in front of it. 

"Jisung—" Minho tries gently, only to be cut off as Jisung snaps at him to just unlock the door already, hand running through his hair, breath coming out quickly.

Once they're inside, Jisung strides in the direction of Minho's bedroom with intent, not even bothering with his shoes. Both his hands are in his hair and his breaths are loud, cutting through the stillness of the dark apartment. He turns then, halfway into the apartment, and Minho startles at the tears wetting his cheeks. 

"What the fuck were you thinking?" he demands.

Minho takes a step forward, like approaching a scared deer, only for Jisung to take one back. His eyes are wide, filled with unshed tears. Minho's chest hurts. 

"I—" he starts. He doesn't have anything to say. Clearly, he wasn't thinking at all.

"Why would you kiss that girl?"

"I— I don't—" Minho stutters.

Jisung runs a hand over his face, shaking his head as he laughs. "You don't know?" he repeats, "Fuck, I should've known... How could I be so stupid?"

"Jisung, what? You're not—"

"I am, though." He looks Minho head-on, eyes hard, voice firm despite the way his lower lip trembles as he speaks. "I thought we were on the same page. It's my fault for thinking— fuck, I don't even know what I thought!"

Minho breathes in unsteadily. He needs Jisung to fucking stop speaking in codes or his head might just explode, brain-matter splattering all over his living room furniture, ruining his green couches. Wouldn't that be something?

"Jisung, I don't understand," he says desperately, "You were talking to that guy, I didn't—"

"What guy?" Jisung cries out.

"You were talking to some guy at the bar, I just assumed—"

Jisung runs his hands through his hair again, clearly frustrated. He laughs humorlessly, like he's in disbelief. "That was just some random guy! He offered to buy me a drink!"

"I—"

"Minho, are you seriously this thick?!" he urges, "You don't— You really don't know?"

"What?" he says, desperate for Jisung to fucking just _explain_ so he can fix this, somehow. "Know what?"

Jisung stares at him for a moment that feels like it stretches over a thousand years. Then he sighs dejectedly, running a hand through his hair, looking up into the ceiling. "Do you know what Seungmin told me when he broke up with me?" he asks, not waiting for Minho to respond before he continues, "That it was because it seemed like I was never really happy with him, always caught up in other things, other people... You.”

Jisung's chest is heaving gently when he stops talking, tears still running down his cheeks silently. Minho stares at him unseeingly, lump in his throat. His mind is completely blank, a shrill pitch echoing in his ears. 

“Me?” he breathes. 

Jisung looks at him, sighing hopelessly. He whispers, “Yes.”

Minho feels his heart pound in his ears, mouth opening and closing as he tries to figure out what to say. He struggles to wrap his head around it; it doesn't fit into the reality that he had been so caught up in trying to accept. 

In the end, all he manages is a weak, “A-are you? Are you caught up in me?”

"Yes," Jisung whispers again, hopelessly honest. “I love you... Fuck, and I thought you— I thought something shifted between us during these two weeks, I thought—" he cuts himself off with a shuddered gasp, lifting one hand to cover his eyes. Minho’s heart breaks at the sight, but it sets him into motion suddenly, mind turning back on as he strides forward to hug Jisung tight to him. He feels Jisung stutter through a sob against his chest.

“Shh, baby,” he soothes, using one hand to lift Jisung's head, reaching over to run a thumb under his eye, “Something did change, I promise.”

Jisung sniffles. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he whispers, “I love you too, Jisung.” 

There's a beat, and then Jisung’s face is breaking out into a smile, another sob wracking through his body, but it's paired with a guttural laugh this time. He reaches up with both hands, tugging Minho down with a hand on each cheek, pressing their mouths together painfully. Minho can’t help but grin into it too, laughing in disbelief. Jisung loves him back, fuck, his heart is pounding. He might pass out. 

They lean their foreheads together after pulling away, both smiling. Minho can't seem to make his heart stop, to make himself stop laughing. 

It's only when he stares up into the ceiling in the afterglow of what was possibly the best sex of his life, Jisung dozing off on his shoulder, that reality hits him. Jisung is still leaving tomorrow. There's no way he can change that. Jisung has that big project, a whole life in Korea that Minho isn't a part of; and Jisung has always been the idealist between them.

He needs to leave.

He glances down at Jisung tucked into his shoulder, lips pouty from where his cheek is squished, his messy hair and the marks that Minho couldn't help but leave on his skin. He looks like everything Minho had imagined. Everything he's been so craving ever since that first October night last year where they had been careless, so fucking careless, utterly oblivious to what they had caused. 

He slips out as quietly as he can, but it's apparently enough to rouse Jisung, who blinks blearily at him, half asleep still as he rasps, “Baby, come back to bed."

“I’ll just be a moment," he whispers back, placing a kiss on Jisung's forehead.

“M’kay.”

He crawls through the window to the fire escape, shuddering when the lukewarm breeze touches his overheated skin, the occasional raindrop hitting his face. He lights one of Jisung's cigarettes, bringing it to his mouth numbly. Looking out over the street, the lights blur before his eyes they finally start to water.

He let's himself cry out there, silent tears rolling down his cheeks, blending with the rain. He tilts his head up to the sky, blowing out smoke and letting the drops fall freely on his face. He exhales unsteadily, feels his heart bleeding in the midst of the bustle of the city underneath. 

He wonders if New York has always been this beautiful. 

There's beauty in the pain, they say. If you love them, let them go. 

All good things must come to an end. 

Minho thinks it's a load of fucking crap, something someone must've made up as an excuse for foolishness.

He closes his eyes, Jisung face on the back of his eyelids. Minho feels his eyes sting as he remembers how beautiful Jisung had looked underneath him just now, how his whole face had flushed as he laid himself bare for Minho, whimpering and gasping so prettily into Minho's mouth, hand fisted in his hair. They had made love, Minho is sure of it this time. 

He opens his eyes when the images become too much, looking down at the street underneath him instead. People are walking down there despite it being the middle of the night, maybe a little closer to the morning than Minho realizes. Somebody is hailing a cab, running with their head down to avoid the rain while two other people hurry down the street huddled together, a shared umbrella between them.

It’s sick — how the world just keeps turning endlessly, all oblivious. 

When the cigarette is done, he puts it out against the wet metal of the fire escape, heaving himself up. He crosses the apartment without looking into the bedroom because he knows, that if he were to take another look at Jisung, he would stay. 

* * *

Felix and Chris live on the other side of the city. He walks there, trying to breathe in the air, not caring that tears are still running down his face as they get washed away by the rainfall. His clothes are soaked. 

“Minho, hey!” Felix exclaims when he opens the door, rubbing one hand over his face and frowning. He’s clad in striped pajama pants and a plain, oversized tee, and Minho most definitely just woke him up. His eyes run down over Minho's wet form, then up again. “Uh, you good, man?” 

Minho only allows himself to feel bad for Felix for a second before he barrels into the apartment, leaving Felix to close the door behind him. “Good. I’m good,” he answers, nodding along with the words. He stands in their living room, running a shaky hand through his soaked hair. 

Felix walks closer. “Dude, are you drunk?”

“Not anymore. I think.”

Felix presses his lips together, narrowing his eyes at Minho. “Okay, stay here. I’m getting Chris.”

Minho nods, breathing out shakily. He can stay, yes, he can do that. He paces around the apartment, pretending like he doesn't hear the quiet conversation in the bedroom next door, Chris's raspy voice and Felix whispering to him, a rustle of sheets. Fuck, his own love life is practically crumbling before his eyes and he decided to walk into the fucking center of domestic bliss. 

He rubs both his hands over his face. Great.

When the couple emerges from the bedroom, all rumbled from sleep, they stick a change of clothes into his hands and order him to go change. He trudges into their small bathroom, peeling off the soaked shirt and sweatpants that he threw on before leaving his own apartment, shivering as he pulls on what he assumes is Chris's clothes, the shirt definitely too broad across the shoulders. 

There's a cup of tea waiting for him in the kitchen, hot and steamy. He sips from it to avoid their eyes. He feels a little self-conscious, now, after calming down. The tea washes away the bitter taste of the cigarette he smoked, leaving behind the sweet flavor of berries and honey. It feels a little like cheating, like Minho doesn't deserve the sugary taste in the back of his throat. 

Chris sits in front of him, all calm energy and soft eyes. "Are you gonna tell us what's up?"

Minho clears his throat, looking between his two friends and their pitying looks. He laughs, a little humorlessly. Normally, he would avoid the question, would tell them that he's just tired or moping over some problem he would pull out of his ass on the spot. But— 

"I seriously fucked up."

Chris nods, eyes glancing briefly to the side where Felix stands. "Okay. Okay, buddy," he says, voice gentle, "Just tell us what happened."

"I'm in love with Jisung," he blurts, barely noting the way his friends don't seem surprised at all before the whole thing is spilling out of him. "He— I told him I love him, and he loves me too, but he's leaving for Korea in a few hours and I don't— I don't know what to say or do. Fuck, I kissed someone at that party and he saw and—"

"Dude," Felix cuts in. He's standing with his phone behind Chris, staring down at it before fixing Minho with a foul look. "Why is Jisung texting me? You left without telling him?"

"I— Yes." 

"Minho you fucking idiot!" Felix bellows in obvious disbelief, "Why would you do that!? He’s freaking out!"

Minho, scrambling to explain himself, raises his voice too, "I don’t— I don’t know. I fucking panicked! He’s leaving and I’m scared he’ll fucking— stay behind for my sake, or something. Or that he'll tell me it was just a little fling to him, or— Fuck, I don’t know!"

“Minho! Are you—" Felix exclaims, but Chris is quick to cut in, laying a calming hand on Felix’s arm. 

“Okay, we understand, Minho," he soothes, putting a hand over Minho's arm as well, "But you can’t make that decision for him, okay? And running away is the worst you can do.”

Minho exhales deeply, running a hand through his damp hair. “I know, fuck, I know,” he breathes. 

“It’s okay, just— Felix will text him that you’re on your way back, and then you guys need to talk. Okay?”

“Okay," he croaks, pressing his lips together against the sting in his eyes. God, he's not going to cry over this again. "Fuck, I feel like an idiot.”

"That's because you are," Felix says absentmindedly, thrumbs moving fast over the screen of his phone. Chris nudges him, hissing something that sounds vaguely like _shut the fuck up, he's clearly in shock. Be nice._

Minho sinks down on the chair, palming one hand over his face. 

He doesn't know what he expected once he finally gets home, but Jisung looking up from where he had been packing his suitcase up, a flat expression on his face as he watches Minho slowly step into the apartment, wasn't it. 

He doesn't look angry, or sad, or anything, and a part of Minho wants to just fucking book it back to Chris and Felix's apartment and hide forever, forget all about these past two weeks.

"Hey," he breathes, the door falling shut behind him.

Jisung stands up, far enough away for the distance between them to feel awkward. Minho doesn't dare move as they stare at each other. 

The morning sun is beginning to rise outside, shining through the curtains that nobody bothered to open. It's like a halo around Jisung and Minho can't help but think back to the last time the sun hit Jisung like this. 

"I don't get it," Jisung whispers, voice frail and raspy, and fuck, Minho did that to him. "We were good last night, right?"

Minho doesn't know what to say. _I'm an idiot. I'm sorry, I couldn't breathe. I love you. Please don't leave me._

"I don't get _you_ , Minho," he goes on, a gentle knit of his brow giving away his unease despite his stoic face, "One moment you're good and next thing I know you're leaving like what we have is fucking _nothing_ to you."

They're silent when Jisung stops talking, and he's clearly waiting for Minho to say something. _Anything_. But Minho is a fucking fool who struggles to put the mess inside his head into words. Especially when Jisung stands there in front of him, rumbled from sleep and eyes so obviously red from crying, big, wide, _begging_ him to say something. 

"I'm so sorry," he whispers. "It's not nothing to me."

Jisung's face crumbles, one lonely tear falling down his face. "Then why would you leave?"

Minho's heart is like steel inside of his ribcage, heavy, pressing up against his throat. He takes a tentative step forward, reaching out for Jisung's wrist because he needs to touch him. Jisung lets him, only bowing his head forward slightly to avoid Minho's eyes. He runs a cold thumb over the vein on Jisung's wrist, tracing it. 

"I'm scared," he confesses. 

Jisung looks up, the frown between his eyebrows deepening. "What are you scared of?"

Minho breathes in deep, trying to gather his thoughts with Jisung so close. "Of us," he murmurs, "Of this. I don't want to lose you, I can't—"

"You won't lose me," Jisung interrupts, "Never. I love you, I told you."

"You're leaving."

Jisung stares at him, eyes glittering beautifully among the warm colors of Minho's living room, the weightless dust-particles swaying in the sharp sunlight behind him as if time has stopped for just a moment. For them. 

"I'm willing to fight for us," Jisung murmurs, then hesitates, like he's afraid of asking the same of Minho. He reaches a hand up and cubs Minho's cheek, thumb running over it. Minho closes his eyes, tightening his own hand on Jisung's wrist, letting out his breath in a shaky exhale. 

"Minho, please," Jisung whispers, "My flight—"

"I know." Jisung has to leave soon, to check in and go through security and make sure he waits at the right gate. It makes his head spin. "I love you too."

He wants to keep saying it, to assure Jisung, but his throat closes up. Jisung leans up and presses their lips together and Minho clings to it. It tastes like salt. When Jisung starts to pull back, Minho steps forward for another kiss, because that one couldn't have been the last one. There has to be a few more, at least. 

Jisung tucks a lock of hair behind his ear, whispering, "We can make it work. We always have."

Minho blinks a little more than necessary, nods. If he were ever to make it work with anyone, it would be Jisung. "Okay."

Okay. Okay, they can make it work. Of course, they can work everything out. 

Jisung smiles too, a little tentative. "We can't know what will happen in the future, but a long-distance relationship won't set us up for failure, you know that, right?"

Minho feels his heart jump. Jisung is right, they won't necessarily crash and burn, not if they work for it, fight for the _us_ that is them. And maybe they won't succeed right away, but they have time. 

"I know," he whispers, "I want to make it work, just—, I need you to be patient with me."

"'Course." Jisung runs his fingers through the small hairs at the back of Minho's neck before smoothing down his shoulder, bicep, forearm, linking their hands together. "You're be worth it."

"Yeah?" 

"Mh."

Minho croaks out a laugh, the sound thick. "Cheesy ass."

Jisung snorts, giving him a teary smile. "Always."

Minho can't hold his giddy laugh back as Jisung leans in to kiss him again, the morning sun wrapping them in golden warmth, pushing them closer together as they press their matching smiles together.

Minho clings to him, touching his skin, and when they eventually have to separate and drive to the airport, Minho feels a little less scared. It's not perfect, but it's enough. They have time.

Dropping Jisung off outside of the airport, kissing him again and again because that one _really_ can't be the last one, he knows they will make it work, somehow. They always do. 

_fin._

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> [my twitter](https://twitter.com/ikkeallerede)


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